


Salvation In Ink

by TalesOfOnyxBats



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Gen, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-14 14:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18949990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesOfOnyxBats/pseuds/TalesOfOnyxBats
Summary: AU where Bellatrix has been banished to the muggle world to get salvation. In order to fill her itch for pain, she takes up a job as a tattoo artist. A job made harder when Hermione walks in.





	Salvation In Ink

It buzzed in her hand.

She was growing used to the hum. 

It was a constant and daily noise.

And it comforted her. 

 

Bellatrix supposed that the comfort came from a sense of stability. At finally having at least one constant. For as much as she hated her predicament, she accepted resentfully that it was probably doing her some good. For the first time in a long while, her head was mostly clear. Her mind was mostly lucid. And she supposed that it wasn’t so bad, her line of work. 

She got to do what she loved.

Even if it wasn’t via her usual means. 

 

These days, muggles came to her seeking pain. She obliged without having a single beat missed. Today’s victim was a man in his late forties. A burly looking man with a bushy red beard and a biker jacket. She knew him well enough, he was loud and rowdy as she and had a habit of asking what business a woman had in this industry.  

 

She tied her hair back, a task much easier vocalized than put into action. Eventually, she had her collection of unruly curls, remotely tamed and away from intruding upon her sight. With that done, she washed her hands thoroughly. And after that she checked on the needles, they had been sitting for awhile and she decided that they are sterile. She motioned for the man, Kyle to seat himself. He did so after barking another thing or two about how it wasn’t right that such a skinny, scraggly looking woman could do his tattoos better than the best of the men he’d been to in the past. 

 

“And yet you keep coming.” She commented as she brought the tattoo gun to his bicep. Today she would be touching up a tiger tattoo--an old work from a less talented friend. It was a gaudy thing, but she would make good work of it. He may not be a fainter nor a crier but paid her generously to make up for the lack of entertainment he provided. 

 

The orange ink she put under his skin is much more vibrant than what he’d had before, with a tinge of gold ink, it truly stood out. She had a feeling that he wouldn’t be making many more comments about how she wasn’t suited for the job. 

 

All in all, it was good work. 

So long as she didn’t think about how she had been stripped of her magic. 

How she had been barred from the wizarding world and was confined to this muggle hellhole. 

 

She began sterilizing the needles in preparation for another client. She didn’t have another booking for a few hours. An unusually slow day. Should she get a walk in, she would prolong the consultation process until the needles have been cleansed to her liking. 

 

Bellatrix didn’t expect that drawing out a simple, ‘what kind of ink are you looking for’ would be so easy. Usually people just plopped themselves down and got straight to the point. Occasional someone would ramble on about how, such and such was a depiction of their ex or a tribute to their dead mother and other interesting matters. But the woman who walked in wasn’t that sort. 

 

The former witch was busy drumming her fingers upon the countertop and eyeing her own tattoo. She’d done it herself, turning her dark mark into a reaper with curvy and gnarled scythe and a snake curling around it. 

The action had bought her a chance to re-enter the wizarding world should she live out her exile without causing too much of a stir. 

 

Some nights she woke with a faint dread that her master would come to berate her for her disgusting act of disloyalty. For the blasphemy of defacing her dark mark. But he was gone, and for permanent this time.

It was time to release herself. 

It was time for freedom. 

 

Bellatrix didn’t notice her until she cleared her throat. “Relax, mudblood, I’m just doing my job. Any screams you’ve heard were completely voluntary.”

 

“I’m not here to check up on you.” Hermione replied. “That’s  _ not  _ my job.” She folded her arms over her chest. 

 

“Then what are you doing here?” Bellatrix frowned, almost certain that she was about to be on the receiving end taunting and mockery. 

 

“This is a tattoo parlor isn’t it?”

 

“Yes.” Bellatrix confirmed. “Why are you standing in it.”

 

“To make flower crowns and cupcakes.” 

 

“Down the street.” 

 

“I want a tattoo, Bellatrix.” 

 

The pure blood quirked an eyebrow. 

 

The humor had drained from Hermione’s face. “You’re going to fix what you’ve done.” 

 

“They tell me that, that’s why I’m here.” Bellatrix returned. “Something, something, atone for your crimes and live a... saner lifestyle.”

 

Hermione’s expression grew duller still. She held out her arm. “You’re going to fix this.” The scar was still heavily prevalent. “Make it into something meaningful and empowering.” 

 

Bellatrix wrinkled her nose, it was one thing to sit idly doing a muggle’s work and another entirely, to actively right a specific wrong she done. Her stomach lolls unpleasantly. She hated the smirk on the younger witch’s face. The smug, triumphant smile. It would seem that just coming into the  shop was a victory. Making demands of someone who ought to be above her was another, larger conquest. Bellatrix did what she does best and retreated behind a wall of jesting and sarcasm. In a falsely cheerful sing song she replies, “the more you pay the more empowering.”

 

But the mudblood wanted to draw things out and make things as mentally painful as Bellatrix had dealt her physical pain. “You’re going to do it free of charge.” Simple. Clean. Cutting. Such was the nature of her demand. 

 

Bellatrix scoffed. “You’re going to have to pull your wand out and utter an unforgivable if you want me to do that.” She wouldn’t specify if she was referring to crucio or imperio.

 

“No.” Hermione refused. “You’re going to do it because I told you to.” She fixed Bellatrix with a hard stare. 

 

“Is that right?” 

 

“It is.” 

 

She looked at the clock. The needles should be clean. “I suppose that I can, since you flashed that gryffindor courage of yours. It’ll be nice to see you cry again.” 

 

Hermione followed her without another word and sat herself down. 

 

“So what are you looking for specifically?”

 

“Nothing so long as it gets rid of this.” She rubbed at the scar with her thumb. 

 

“You’re really going to trust me with full creative control?” Bellatrix perked up rather deviously. 

 

“I trust that you won’t do something that will ensure that you’ll never hex another house elf again.” 

 

Bellatrix frowned. This mudblood was really sucking the life out of her. Hadn’t she a solid form, Bella might have thought her a dementor. She took a moment to work out a sketch. “Do you want to see it?”

 

“Surprise me, and make it a good one.” Hermione replied. “You getting your wand back depends on it.”

 

What a vexing human being. “Just sit still and scream very loudly if I hurt you.”  She picked up her tattoo gun and drank in the soothingly familiar buzz. 

The mudblood was annoyingly quiet as she dragged the needle across her skin. The only indication of pain or discomfort was a contortion of her face every now and again or a reflexive tensing of her muscles. Once or twice she hissed in pain, a small thing that Bellatrix relished in. At least it was something to tickle her humor.  It was another two hours before she declared, “you’re all done, nice and pretty. You better refer your muddy and half-blood friends.” 

 

Hermione held her arm out in front of her, inspecting the fresh ink. Where blood once marred her skin was an elegant owl. Bellatrix drew the ‘L’ up and connected it to the ‘D’ of ‘blood’ to form the owl’s head and ears. She used the first ‘O’ as an eye and the second to shape the beak. And the circle of the ‘D’ became a second eye.

 

“An owl?” Hermione questioned. 

 

“You think that you’re smart so I gave you an owl.” Bellatrix shrugged. 

 

She held her arm to the light. Bellatrix clicked her tongue as she decided how she wanted to approach the next part of her work. It had been harder to make something of mud so she took the easy route and drew a few aesthetically placed swirls amid a few feathers and flowers. She replicated the design on the other side of the tattoo.

 

Bellatrix hadn’t expected Hermione to smile. “This is actually…” she trailed off. “It’s really pretty.” 

 

“If you’d like to put that down, I can wrap it up and send you on your way.”

 

Hermione held her hand out for Bellatrix to dress. There was something so nerve grating about tenderly caring for and helping cleanse a wound she formerly created. Something degrading, that sent tingles of repugnance resonating up and down her vertebrae. It was appalling. 

 

“Why flowers?” Hermione asked. 

 

“Do you want me to tell you that it was just a random pattern or do you want me to make up some story about how the flowers represent something beautiful budding from something ugly?” 

 

“I’m going to pretend that you put some thought into it.” Hermione smirked. “It almost looks like  you put a lot of effort into this.” 

 

“Believe it or not, I take pride in my work, mudblood.”

 

“Thank you.” Hermione said.

 

Bellatrix furrowed her brows. “I only did this because you told me to.” But was that entirely true? There was something satisfying in completing that one. Perhaps it was the same brand of satisfaction that came with redoing her own dark mark.

The prospect of new freedom. 

Of making her own decisions, ones that aren’t tainted by her master’s will. 

Perhaps it came with her newfound semblance of clarity and semi-peace. 

“Wash it thrice a day. No swimming, no excess sun...you have an owl on your arm, I’m sure that you can figure out how to care for a tattoo.” 

 

Hermione took a picture of her new ink. “Do you want to take one?”

 

Bellatrix gave an indigent sniff. “What is with muggles and taking pictures of everything.”

 

“It’s called building a profile, Bellatrix.”

 

“Word of mouth is my profile.” 

 

Hermione inspected her arm again. “You have a very distinct style.” She noted. 

 

Bellatrix nodded. “In most aspects of my life, I do.” She knew that she wasn’t making it easy for the muggle born to compliment her. But she didn’t know if she was ready to accept praise from such a low place. Ready or not, there was a small prickle within her that took well to the prospect. She didn’t return Hermione’s parting words nor gestures. She merely watched as the girl walked away, untethered from past injury. Moving forward in full with aid from the one who’d set her back in the first place. 

Victorious, indeed. 

 

Another client stepped in to take her place. 

Bellatrix had a feeling that the mudblood would be back.

To her own dismay, she wasn’t entirely off put my the prospect.


End file.
